The Rise and Fall of the Angel of Music
by Tora-Hime-Melody
Summary: This story is a retelling of the classic Phantom of the Opera and all subsequent books, but told from the point of view of the Phantom himself. Written by Sam Mulhiem, posted by me with his permission .
1. The Music

_Author's Note:_ Many of you who are reading this story may recall the original story in Gaston Leroux's novel The Phantom of The Opera. Then came the lesser known sequel by Fredrick Forsythe titled "The Phantom of Manhattan", and the even lesser known version titled "Phantom". All of these books tell the story of a man who is an outcast from society trying to fit into the social norm, and attempting to woo a young woman. This story I am going to convey is not from the outside. I am going to attempt to tell the story from the view of the Phantom himself, as if he were writing onto the page. Please use constructive criticism when you are finished. Advice is always welcome, but vulgarity is not appreciated.

The Rise and Fall of the Angel of Music.

Music. From the time when I was a young boy, it has been central to my existence. I live for music. I even composed a bit in my time, though most people have never heard of the score. I doubt there is a copy of it in print anymore, and I am willing to bet the original has not been copied. But I am getting ahead of myself. My story is one of tragedy. I have loved, and lost. The saying "It's better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all" must have been stated by someone who has never loved and lost the person that was the object of such love. But again, I digress.

My beginnings were less then desirable. I was born to a somewhat wealthy family in central Europe. Do not ask me where, for I cannot tell you. The reason should become apparent. When I was born, from what I was told, I was not expected to live longer then a few moments. Most children born with as many defects as I was were dead by the end of the day, either killed by their parents, or overcame by the defects afflicting them. However, I survived. According to the maid of the house, one of the few people to ever show me kindness, my voice was the reason I lived. Even as a child only moments old, I had the voice of an angel. It held back my mother from killing me. For you see, I was born with two thirds of my face deformed.

My skin was a dead, waxen color. My eyes were yellow and sunken into my skull. My skull had assumed a molten shape under the dead skin. My hair, what little I possessed, was sparse and patchy. The rest of my body was little better. I was thin, extremely under weight. You could count my ribs. My fingers even then were boney and long. The house maid said that the midwife took one look at my features and ran screaming to get the priest, who declared me possessed. However, when I cried my first scream, my mother moved like a woman in a trance and nursed me. If she had been able to resist that initial moment, I would not have lived, for the priest would have had me killed in order to remove Satan from the world.

Despite my voice, I still was not able to live a normal childhood. My mother immediately fashioned a mask for my face, so she could bear to be near me. She constantly locked me in my room, with no light for me to see, aside from what little came through the shuttered window. As I grew up, I came to embrace the darkness as a friend, instead of fearing it as most children do.

My one solace came every Sunday. My mother's house was close to the church. Close enough that I could enjoy the music if I pressed my ear to the shutters. For a brief period, I was free. I could soar among the heavens and frolic in the fields. I could almost feel the wind on my face, the sun on my skin. I never wanted that music to end. However, as it is with most good things, it did end, and the darkness and silence would seemingly crush me in their power.

When I was around six years old, my maid, my one childhood friend, held a small celebration. Apparently this was a custom for people to celebrate the day of their birth. Another little thing that my mother conveniently avoided. When she asked what I wanted for the day, there were two requests. One was to be able to learn music, and the other was to go walking outside for a few moments. She was not readily agreeable to the second, but in the end she relented. As I meandered my way, I came across a small dog lying in the road, abandoned. The pitiful thing looked at me as I approached. I couldn't stop myself. I picked it up and carried it home. The maid didn't say a word when she saw me carrying the thing. She just watched as I nursed it back to heath over the next few days. Then my mother came home. Surprisingly she didn't object to the animal in a house where no other pets were kept. I suspect now it was because I would be away from her more if she let me keep it. It was only a few weeks of happiness for me, and it ended with some kids. They killed my dog. I stood at my window crack and watched them do it. The anger....the rage I felt when I saw her lifeless body on the pavement...I broke the shutters and jumped after them. They heard my scream of rage and fled, which is just as well, because I knew then that if any of them had stayed, I would have killed them.

As for the first request, the maid kept her end of her promise. She went to the priest and persuaded him to teach me music. The man was reluctant, as he had heard from his predecessor about me and my...uniqueness. But he was agreeable to teach me, so long as I kept my mask on. And I, so eager to learn the very music that I heard, was all too happy to abide by that small request. And learn music I did. I studied furiously. I learned all the notes the voice could master. I learned each cadence, each adagio, each staccato. I memorized countless arias and solo pieces sung by the clergy and the choir. I was even permitted books on music and candle-light to read them by, studying works of the great composers of the time and imagining the sounds in my head. My teacher called me a musical prodigy.

One night, after my mother was in bed and my maid went home, I crept out of the house and walked into the church. There I saw one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. I knew from the reading I had done it was called a pipe organ. I had always wondered what one looked like, and now there I was, a few feet away from it. I couldn't stop myself. I just had to play it. The _sounds!_ Never in my short life had I heard such wonderous noise! I played for only a few moments, for I was afraid that I would be seen outside, but those few moments were enough. I was satisfied with just being able to spend mere moments alone with music and freedom. However, as time wore on, I became increasingly bold and spent longer and longer time at the organ. Eventually, as with the music on Sunday, it ended. THAT day I remember all too well.

I had to have been eight when the priest came into my room. I thought it was going to be just like any other day when he arrived. I thought he had come to teach me music. However, he had a different agenda that day. He informed me that I was not permitted into church ever again. Apparently he had seen me leaving after my last visit. Then he had the gall to tell me that one who bears the devil's likeness must be cleansed. Naturally, I was confused, and I said as much. He then proceeded to spout such nonsense at me that God would strike me down and I would have to burn in unquenchable fire and such foolishness. I swore the man was quite insane. Then he did the unspeakable. He took my mask away from me. I begged him to give it back, but he refused. He started talking in Latin, the holy tongue, attempting to "exorcise the demon from my soul". After about five minutes of this, he took a piece of wood and started beating me with it. I couldn't take any more. My vision went red and i broke the lash. I still remember every moment. The fear in his eyes. The sensation of power that swept through me as I wrapped my hands around his throat. The look on his face as I strangled him. For you see, even though I was very young, I was incredibly strong, and rage only lent more to that power. I still remember the sound that his final breath made as it left his body...the death rattle, as it is known. I picked up my mask from where it had fallen, claimed the man's cloak, even though it didn't fit me, and walked out of the house. My mother and maid had left. Later I found out that my mother knew what he was going to do, and left with the maid so she couldn't be held accountable for anything untoward that would happen toward me.

At last, I was free. I could do whatever I want, whenever I wanted. Or so I thought. It took a single day before I realized that I could not be in public. People took one look at me and drove me away, even with my mask. They could not tolerate someone who was so very different than them. So I took to stealing what I needed. I learned to become light on my feet. I learned to be quiet. I learned to pick locks, what sort of tools I needed, what doors were best to enter, what sort of hiding places people put things that I wanted. As it was with music, I learned quickly. I also learned over the space of four years where to sleep if you wanted to get through the night unmolested by other thieves and cutthroats, as well as to kill or be killed. Over those four years I killed 5 men. I also paired up with a few and learned some helpful tricks, and I survived by my own hard work and my own determination.

One warm night, I was sleeping in a little clearing some distance from the main road, when I felt something moving about my person. I had removed my mask, as the thing was too small to fit properly and it was incredibly uncomfortable to sleep in, so I immediately assumed that some animal had mistaken me for a corpse and was about to make a meal of me. So I shifted slightly. Then I heard them. _Voices_. It turned out that what I had felt were hands. And it wasn't an animal who thought I was a dead person, but a young boy. I leaped up and he ran off. I thought I scared him away and laid back to go to sleep. However, I was mistaken. He had run off, but returned with several other people. I awoke again to being poked with a stick. When I rolled over, I saw four men leaning over me. My hands flew to my face at once to cover it so they wouldn't see. But it was too late. As I soon became accustomed to, they flew into some sort of maniacal fit and beat me senseless. When I came to, I was in a cage!

Over the next few days, I was confined to the cage, where several men and teens looked at me and discussed what to do with me. When I asked them for my mask, they laughed. Eventually I gave up on that idea. So I curled up into a ball and slept. The pattern repeated, thought I became aware that the location was changing. When I awoke one time, it was to kicks to the ribs. When I sat up, I was informed that I was to be a star attraction in the circus, which is apparently what I was captured by. My title was to be the Living Skeleton, or something of that nature. The man who was talking to me was incredibly drunk and slovenly. But he held my mask, and said that if I cooperated, I could have it back. I informed him that I needed a new one, or it was no deal, and he proceeded to beat me senseless once again. But he acquiesced to my request, and I awoke to find a new mask in my cage.

Life in the circus was terrible, even when I cooperated. I was forced to stay in a coffin that was built for me until I was introduced, then I was to rise from the thing while eerie music was played and scare the younglings. What usually ended up happening was the adults would demand their money back. When that happened, I was beaten for losing the fat man his money. When the circus was not traveling, I was confined to my cage, unable to leave even to relieve myself. When the circus was moving, I had to be out to help move various things, carts and the like. During these times I would talk to some of the other oddities that were along, the bearded lady and the like. Always I kept my mask on though, to avoid the beatings.

One particular trip changed my standings with the circus. During the break time, I came across a ventriloquist practicing throwing his voice around. Now, you must understand, circus performers guard their arts with incredible suspicion. But this man was not in his normal frame of mind. He ended up teaching me the secret of his art. After a little practice, I became better then the man himself, though I never let on. When the fat man came for his usual ranting about how I better earn him his money, I decided to let loose my secret. I told him no, and that I wouldn't help him unless he made some concessions. When he started on his rant on how could I be so ungrateful and about all the things he did for me, I threw my voice in his ear and told him that he had no idea of the money I could bring him if he would listen. Then I made the coffin talk. If I remember correctly, I made it say "Behold...I house the living dead....but soon the living shall remain the eternally dead". Then I made the lock of the cage say "I am the lock that holds the door shut." And the key on the man's belt said "I am the key that will unleash the monsters from the cages". The look on the fat man's face was priceless. When he asked what I wanted, I decided that I wanted to have more freedom to move around. Not to be caged at all times like a common animal. I also wanted to change a few things in his show. He didn't like the second one, but gave in once he heard me out. And to say the least, I am sure he was glad, after the first night of the new living dead. I made my voice sound like angels themselves, singing above the tent to the haunting melody of the music he played. Then I arose in all my ghastly glory, in a pitch black cloak and breeches, no shirt. The audience was frozen. Not a single sound could be heard, not a single jeer, no cries of horror, no wailing children. For my voice did not just sound from above. It rang directly in their ears. And when MY show was finished, they all left in silence.


	2. The Architecture

Life on the road grew tiresome after a time. It was about three years after that initial winning performance that I decided to leave. I probably should have known that it wouldn't be that easy. The fat man, who drank all his earnings away, was in a particularly odd mood. I knew at once, thanks to some teachings from the medicine woman, that something was wrong with his mental faculties. He entered my cage, since I still was not allowed to sleep outside of it. He proceeded to whip me out of my coffin, where I was resting, and demanded that I strip off my clothes except for my mask. The moment he reached for his belt to loosen his trousers, I knew what I had to do. I whipped the hunting knife off of his belt and plunged it into his stomach. In his drunken stupor, he didn't realize it for a few moments. When the realization that he was going to die dawned on him, he whispered "You bastard...you've killed me...." Then he sucked air in to shout. Before he made a sound, I removed the knife from his swollen gut and plunged it into his throat, severing his vocal cords as well as his spine with the violence of my actions. Of course, as a result, my hands and arms were covered in blood, but that is nothing that a good wipe on his clothes couldn't take care of. I also claimed the knife, since I knew it would be useful to defend myself with later. After donning my clothes, I left the cage, never again to return.

I traveled the land for several weeks, returning to my life of thievery and trickery. I also set up a show for a bit for myself. I would go into villages, perform some music, earn some money, and leave. I would never be able to buy anything, for I was still chased from the majority of the shops. Still, I was able to survive.

I learned a great deal while I was traveling by myself. Theatricality and drama go a long way to pleasing crowds. I learned several tricks. Smoke pellets, flashes of light, shadows that play off of walls, and especially use of mirrors. All of things that I would be utilizing for the rest of my life I learned in my young life. There was one other thing that I learned on my solo journey: the love of architecture.

I was traveling in France, just in the smaller towns outside of Paris. I came across a huge villa that was being built. It was late, and all of the workers had left for the day. I had never seen such a project being worked on, and it fascinated me. I went over and inspected the site. I marveled at the masonry. The wood-working. The structure. This was a place fit for a king, in my eyes, not for some rich bumbling idiot who probably ordered its construction. I even tried my hand at mimicking some of the stonework that was already in place on some of the spare shards that lay around. I discovered that my hands were perfect for this sort of work. They could build as quickly as destroy, it appeared.

After that night, I decided to stick around. Every night for the next couple weeks I would return to the site and continue the work. I would always leave well before the crew returned, since I didn't want a confrontation. But I never once saw my work discarded or cast aside. In fact, after about two weeks, the overseer was wondering how the work was getting done when he was the last person to leave at the end of the day. Because of my efforts, the villa was going up incredibly fast. They were ahead of schedule and under the budget, which I learned later that was unusual for a project of that magnitude. So one evening, he stayed. He saw me creep into the site and pick up several of the discarded tools. However, when he went to approach me quietly, he stepped on a slab of marble, which went skittering out from under him. Hearing this, I fled before he could stop me. I didn't know at the time he wanted to compliment me. I thought he was going to beat me or have me arrested or something. But I returned, despite my instincts. And there he was, waiting for me.

His eyes are what made me stick around. They didn't show the suspicion or the fear that most humans have when they look at me and my mask. Instead they were speculative. Then he spoke to me. He asked if I was the one working on the house when the crew had left. There was no point in me lying, as I knew he had seen me the previous night. When I told him such, he _smiled_. He informed me that he was happy with the work I was doing, and that in fact it was better then most of the stuff the crew was producing every day. And he expressed amazement that I was able to do so without the benefit of daylight. Finally came the words that shocked me. "How would you like to be my apprentice?"

I didn't know what to say. Never had I been asked that before. He noticed my uncertainty, and said that it was an open invitation. And he also said that I was welcome to return to the site whenever I wanted. So over the next few days, I did, still returning at night, but always in my mind I debated the options that lay before me. Do I accept his offer and finally make a socially acceptable move? Or do I continue my lonely, forsaken life? In the end, I chose to accept his offer. I followed him to his house one evening and told him such. He was so happy that night. He instructed me that I was not to live outdoors any longer, and that I was to live with him. He gave me a heavily furnished room with bookshelves piled with material of what seemed to be everything. I never used the bed, though. I preferred the floor. I guess that derived from my time on the road and from my childhood. But again, I digress.

The only part of this arrangement that I was less than thrilled about was that I was not permitted to work at night. I had to work with the rest of the crew during the day. Fortunately, my Master commanded such respect that the crew didn't even look twice at me, although I still could sense the tension and the fear in the air whenever I was around. There was only one incident that occurred, and that was when my Master was too ill to attend the work site. By this point, I had garnered respect from the majority of the workers because of the quality of my work and the respect that I showed them. Not once did I hold the fact that I was his apprentice over the crew. Still, that didn't prevent some ill will toward me. Two of the younger members of the crew were also hoping to gain the title I now held. And one day they cornered me, and proceeded to beat me. I resisted for a bit, but then, once again, the unthinkable happened. Or, rather i should say, the expected happened. One of the youth removed the mask from my face. The horror in their eyes was almost palpable in the air. Then the beatings resumed, only more vicious. However, with the removal of my mask, something ignited in me. The wrath I had long held at bay was released in a brief instant. I beat one fellow senseless, and the other I shattered every bone in his hand to reclaim my mask. Once I had it in place, I scampered up the scaffolding, where I remained unmolested. The crew manager heard of the fight, and summoned my Master. When he heard the details from some of the other crew, he fired the youth and took me straight home. I had never seen him so angry, but it was not directed at me, for which I was thankful.

Things went smoothly from that day on. I was soon recognized as a master mason and architect, and my Master provided me with projects of greater importance. I designed houses, theaters, offices, apartments. All of which earned prestige in society. I even designed my own opera house, something that I was hoping to build one day. Then another tragic event happened.

As it turned out, my Master had a daughter who was sent to live in a convent. Arianna was her name. She was an arrogant person, one who assumed that the world was placed to serve them. In any case, she faked an illness to get away from the sisterhood and came to live with her father for some time. I was respectful to her, if somewhat cold and emotionless. I didn't want myself distracted by the petty charms of a simple girl. She, on the other hand, was enthralled by me. She held delusions that my mask hid a handsome face that I was saving for a beautiful maiden such as herself. But I refused all her attempts to get me to remove it. Each time she asked, and there were many, I simply replied with "I am sorry, madam...I shall not." I will give her this, she was persistent for a time. Then she stopped, and I thought my torment of that nature was over. But how wrong I was.

Arianna admired my work when she visited the site. She requested that I carve her several pots for her plants and a bench so she could sit on the roof of the house and enjoy the weather. I complied, if only to have her leave me alone. But she was a brat of a girl. She didn't know the first thing about gardening, which was apparent to me as she never watered her plants. Anyway, I was working on her bench, right there on the roof with her dead plants all around me, when she came out. She stalked right over to me and _demanded_ that I remove my mask. Again, I supplied the response "I am sorry, madam...I shall not". However, that day was destined to be different. She threw a fit and the commotion drew her father out to us. When he discovered what the ruckus was about, he tried to get her to forget the nonsense about my mask. But her fit only swelled in violence. In the end, he gave in and said to me in a despairing voice "Erik...take it off."

I froze. I had my refusal on my lips when she turned and smirked at me in such a manner that fanned my rage into an inferno that consumed my reason. I ripped my mask off and stalked up to her. "So...you want to see what is behind my mask, do you?? Well, here is the face that you so desperately craved. Is it not handsome? Or perhaps this is another mask?" I grabbed her hands and ran them over my skin. "Come, come, my dear. Pull, pinch, squeeze. Isn't it delightful." I stood there, my very being shaking in rage. She stared in horror and disgust, backing away. I moved forward to stop her, since she was going close to the edge of the roof, but I was too late. My movement sparked some primal instinct in her to run, and that she did, right off the roof top. I didn't have to look to know she was dead. No person could survive such a fall. I replaced my mask, turned and glared at the man who formerly was my master, and stalked out of the house. Only later would I return, to find a note saying that I was not to blame for her death, that he should have been stronger and sent her back to the convent. However, even that note did nothing to lessen my guilt of that day. It was that day I grew to despise humanity.


	3. The Persian

Chapter Three - The Persian

So I resumed my travels. I vowed that never would I bow to anyone. Never again would I accept any offer for work, or take anything, no matter how well intended. My solitary sojourn took me many places. Always I earned my keep doing what I did best. Performing my illusions and singing my music. I learned some new tricks as well. I learned an assassination technique that the Croatians called the Punjab Lasso. It soon became my weapon of choice. I mastered it so well that I could use it in a brawl, if the need arose. But again, I am letting my mind wander.

I was performing in the eastern part of Europe when the secret of what was behind my mask caught up to me once again. It always did if I lingered in a place for too long. One evening, after my performance, some of the youth in the crowd stirred up a frenzy for me to take off my mask. The demands wouldn't stop! So, in a moment of rage, I tore my mask off my face and started to sing once again. Only this piece of music was not something of the religious sort, or anything the locals have ever heard before. For this song was of my own composition. It sprang forth, soft, compelling, full of sorrow. Then as I continued, it grew louder, passionate, and full of hate. I poured my emotions into this composition of mine, and it was readily apparent that the crowd had never experienced anything like it. And I use the word experience literally. From the faces I saw, the emotions I put forth were visible on each. I ended the song on sadness, lamenting how humans could be so cruel. By the time I was finished, everyone was crying, and left without the jeers and the habitual throwing of rotten food that was the usual reaction.

I stalked off to my room immediately after the performance. After a moment to recollect myself from the emotional outpouring, I became aware that I was not alone. There was another fellow in my room! He was an odd sort, short, and he had an astrakhan cap on his head that was very much out of place and signified that he was indeed foreign to this area. "What do you want?" I recall snapping at him. He bowed and stated that he was here at the request of the Shah of Shahs. "He asks that I accompany you back to Persia, where your fame has spread."

"Well, you can return to your beloved Shah of Shahs and inform him that I do not welcome uninvited guests to my chambers, and that I am not some servant that he can summon. If he wants me to perform, tell him to come himself!" I replied rather rudely, which was understandable after the ordeal I had just been through. The man was unruffled by my attitude. "If you should choose to change your mind, I shall be staying not too far from here near the river." He politely commented, bowed, then left.

I have to admit that at the time, the idea of a change in scenery was appealing. After all, if I were to gain the favor of a king of some sort in a country, maybe I can finally achieve what I have longed for: acceptance. So, after a few days of thought and consideration, I took the man in the astrakhan cap up on his offer. "The Shah of Shahs will be delighted" Was his only reply. Then, that night, we set sail on the very boat that brought him to me.

The Daroga, as he asked me to call him, is a very strange person. He travels by boat, but is forced to spend a great portion of the journey huddled in his bed. He had the chills and was vomiting uncontrollably. When I inquired of this, I was informed by the vessel's keeper that the Daroga suffered this each trip on a boat! What foolishness! I immediately took matters into my own hands, for although I despised humanity, I had some respect for the Daroga. He was a man of honor and duty, and would go through any lengths to complete his tasks. So while he was human, and had all the failings of such, I had to respect that much of him, and to see him in the pitiful state he was in simply wouldn't do. So I mixed him a remedy that the medicine woman taught me all those years ago. It worked like a charm, and the man was up and about in no time.

Once we finished the water part of our travels, we were forced to take camels and horses to reach our final destination in Persia. Along this road, the Daroga attempted to teach me the honorifics and the titles that his king was expected to be addressed. I, for one, listened with great contempt. "I shall not refer to anyone as "Jewel of the Palace" or "Eye of god" or any such nonsense!" I shouted at him after the third day of the stuff. Still, he tried to teach me for another day. I managed to change his mind on the matter after we had camped about 5 days away from the shore. A brigand had decided that the Daroga was a fine target to try to rob. Unfortunately for the thief, I was not far away. I killed him with a quick toss and jerk of my Punjab lasso. Were it not for that, the Daroga would have been killed. After that incident, the Daroga refrained from spouting at me about the workings of the Persian court.

We arrived in Mezandran a few days later. I couldn't believe my eyes! This place was no city. It was a grouping of glorified hovels and shanties that surrounded a palace of moderate stature. The craftsmanship was appalling and everywhere I looked buildings were on the verge of collapse. I commented on this, and the Daroga immediately shushed me, saying that these things were not proper for discussion in the court. I shook my head, amazed at the ignorance of the Shah.

The Shah of Shahs was nobody spectacular. He was barely thirty years old, if I was any judge of age, and far too pampered. So I watched as the Daroga went through the ritual greetings and titles and nonsense, bored out of my mind. So I entertained myself by looking around. There was a marvelous chair with many, many diamonds embedded in the wood. As the Daroga turned to introduce me, I decided that later I would have to take a closer look. I took one look at the Shah of Shahs and said politely, if bluntly "Hello". Nothing more, nothing less. The Daroga was shocked, but the young king laughed and invited me to take a walk with him. On this walk we discussed many things, such as the poor state of his country. He was relieved that I was not intimidated by his titles and his stature. Nearing the end of the walk, we came upon the harem. There he introduced me to his wife. And after one look, I saw that my life was going to be forever changed.


	4. The Rosy Hours of Mezandran

Chapter 4: The Rosy Hours of Mezandran

The court of the Shah of Shah was a very political place. There was constant squabbling by all advisors and even the servants were allowed to voice an opinion whenever they felt like it. Each tried to outshout the last in an effort to fall under the good graces of the Shah of Shahs. I took a different approach. I didn't speak. I stood aside at each debate, patient, and learned everything about my opponents in the court. I learned that one advisor had a gambling debt so great that if it were to come to surface, he would be handed over to those he owed. Another I gained knowledge that he had an illegitimate child; and that in this peculiar country, if one were to be found with such, would be executed. And my greatest rival, the chief of the advisors, had the misfortune of killing his predecessor, who also happened to be the Shah of Shahs' brother. Each fact I tucked away for myself, for I knew that there would come a time when this information would be useful to my own gains.

The first assignment I was given by the Shah of Shahs was to design a summer retreat, as he called it. He was testing me, for he had apparently learned of my architectural prowess. He also asked what could be done on the matters of the state of the rest of the country. I advised him many things in that regard that I shall not mention here, for some of the items are extremely sensitive to the conduct of that country. Nevertheless, I gained the favor of the Shah of Shahs over the next few months, as well as attracting the attention of his wife, the Sultana, as she was called.

The Sultana first came to me three months after I had arrived in Persia, and ordered me to take off my mask. I denied doing so, and she smiled such a sweet smile that I almost missed the venom it contained. She informed me that she knew of my face, and that she desired to see if the Living Corpse lived up to its reputation. Again I denied. In punishment, she ordered me to accompany her to the arena. In those years, she derived great amusement from watching prisoners and slaves being torn to shreds by fellow humans or exotic animals. I was forced to participate. The rules of the arena were simple...if you survived one round with an animal of the Sultana's choosing, or three different champions from previous battles, you were set free. The Sultana decreed that I was not to face three humans, however. I was to face five, and in two waves, one of two, another of three. I was allowed to arm myself with any bladed weapon I saw fit, but my pistol was taken from me. So I selected a dagger, and my Punjab lassoes, for those were the weapons I was most familiar. I also declined any additional armor aside from my cloak and dress outfit, which sent the weapons-master into hysterics.

The battle in the arena was short and swift for the first wave. My Punjab lasso killed my first attacker, as the second stood there and watched. My dagger took him in the throat before his partner's breath was completely cut off. The second wave proved to be a bit more of a challenge, although I had the upper hand. For the prisoners also knew that only one person could leave the arena alive, and although they were to first kill me, they also were watching each other, and thus spread out more, making it harder for me to kill them swiftly. In the end, my Punjab lasso claimed another victim, as did my knife. The third man I killed, not with my lasso or my knife, or any other hand-held weapon, but with my voice and my face, for I removed my mask and terrified the man to such an extent that he collapsed, dead at my feet.

The Sultana was delighted at my feat. When I was cleaned up, she demanded that I devise an inventive way of torturing prisoners. In those days, they had specialists for this job, and the work they did more often than not killed the subject before they divulged the information they carried. So design and build I did. Using all the knowledge at my disposal on mirrors and metal and angles, I devised a room with large mirrors inlayed in the walls, angled to such a degree that you couldn't tell where the seams on one mirror met the seams from the next. Then I produced a metal tree, worked into such a life like imitation that birds would sit on it, yet no wind could rustle the leaves. This I placed in the center, and if you were to look around, it would appear to you that you were in a forest of trees, for the reflection of the trees was endless. Then I sealed the ceiling and floor with heavy insulated material, and I set the entire thing over a furnace. Light would come in through the ceiling through little glass holes that were bored there, and when used, the furnace would heat the room to unbearable temperatures. The final touch was a device I created to imitate the sound of running water. When the prisoner was subjected to the heat for a period of time, the sound of a brook would produce a mirage to his moisture-deprived thoughts. When he would take a drink, instead of encountering water, he would instead scald his mouth on either wood, mirrors, or the tree itself. The Sultana enjoyed her new toy immensely, and threw people in there for the sole purpose of seeing how long they could last, before going mad.

I had the opportunity, while in Persia, to stay with the Daroga in those first months. I met his son, a boy of around seven years of age, and pale, which was unusual for that part of the world. I soon discovered that the boy was dying, and felt the unusual emotion of pity for both him, and the Daroga. So I made toys for the boy. I fashioned a monkey that would play the cymbals. I made a playhouse for him, full of secret holes and cubbies to hide things that he never wanted to be found by anyone else. I made the boy happy, and that made the Daroga happy for a time. But the Daroga was also jealous, for soon the boy wanted to spend more time with me then with his own father. It caused tensions between the two, and several fights. I intervened at the last one of these fights. I called the boy over to me and, using the power of my voice alone, instructed the boy to obey his father in all matters. This the boy did, until his illness left him bedridden. I was with him on that last day, and seeing that the Daroga was unable to perform his religious duties, I took them up for him. I started singing a requiem mass for the boy as he lay there. By the time I had finished, the boy was dead, and the Daroga was in tears. After the burial and the customary mourning period, he approached me and thanked me profusely. Later he said that I appeared to look like the Angel of Death, sent from heaven to carry his son away on the wings of heaven's music. I didn't say anything to that, but inwardly I was getting tired of this superstitious country and its foolish people.

My last project in Persia was to re-design the Shah of Shahs' palace and to oversee its construction. He had heard about the playhouse I had built for the Daroga's son, and requested I do the same for his palace. I obliged him, creating many false walls and secret passageways for the Shah to move around freely, for he was a man of practical jokes. When it was completed, the Daroga was sent to my estate to have me killed. The Shah of Shahs had decided that there was to never be another palace like the one I had created for him. He had first thought to remove my eyes, but upon further thought, decided to have me executed, for I could still instruct with my eyes removed. The Daroga had arrived before the Shah's men, to warn me and to let me escape. It was at the risk of his life, but he felt that he needed to do this, for I had helped his son. When I was safely away, he located a corpse, dressed it in my clothes, and took it back, presenting it as proof that I had died. After this task was completed, he retired, and took residence in the country until later in life, when we would meet at the Paris Opera House during my greatest triumph and most humiliating defeat.


End file.
